“It is over?”
“Yes.”
“You are ready?”
“Yes…oh, yes!”
The ship came for him, later, a silver bubble floating down out of the night. It touched ground gently; a circular opening appeared. Through the opening a figure ran. He did not need his eyes to know that her hair was brown-gold, that her eyes were brown.
“Vickie! Vickie!”
“Doug!”
There was no sound that could be heard. Just a man-figure and a woman-figure, two auras that blended into one.
JEWEL OF DEATH
Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, December 1945.
Afternoon sunlight was spread like a bright blanket over the veranda. Elbows resting on the stone balustrade, Amelia Blanding stood looking down at the garden. She relaxed under the gentle pressure of the sunlight, felt it warm the cold weight of bitterness inside her.
The creak of bedsprings came through the opened French windows behind Amelia. Then followed an old woman’s quavering voice.
“Amelia!”
“Yes, Aunt?” Amelia turned reluctantly from the sunlight and the garden, entered the shaded depths of a great bedroom. Her angular, bony face was expressionless. It did not show the irritation which she always felt at the senile whine of old Harriet Blanding’s voice.
Harriet had pulled herself to a sitting position on the huge four-poster bed. Pain of the effort twisted her wrinkled, pale features into a grotesque mask.
“Do you want something, Aunt?” Amelia asked, with just the right shade of eager interest tingeing her words. She loathed the necessity of being servile as much as she feared the consequences of rebellion. She knew she was to inherit the Blanding fortune upon the death of Harriet, but she was aware at the same time that she could not be absolutely certain of this until the old woman finally was gone. Amelia had to be careful until the very end.
“I’ve been thinking about Sue,” old Harriet said. “I think I’m going to change my will.”
A flood of horror washed abruptly over Amelia. She swayed, and her face turned pale. Clutching one of the bedposts, she stared down at Harriet with wide, frightened eyes. “What!” she gasped. “Why, why, what do you mean, Aunt?”
Harriet Blanding relaxed back upon the pillow. Her wrinkled eyelids closed, and she breathed rapidly. In the sunlight which poured-in through the French windows she looked like a shriveled mummy which had somehow been invested with life.
Finally old Harriet spoke again. Trembling, Amelia leaned over the bed, to catch every word which came from those puckered, bloodless lips.
“I haven’t much longer to live, Amelia,” old Harriet said. “Dr. Thayer has given me six more months at the most. Thinking about the end has made me see things in a clearer light.” The old woman paused, and her eyes opened., “Sue is a sweet girl. She’s young and has a whole life ahead of her. As the will now is, the bulk of the Blanding estate falls to you. Sue receives only a mere pittance. I hardly think that’s fair to her. She and Tom Vale—”
At mention of the name, everything faded into unreality for Amelia. She entered a dream-world built for two. The beat of her heart quickened, and something that was almost beauty came into her long, bony face.
Tom Vale… Just by closing her eyes, Amelia could see the strength and the youth of him. She could see him standing straight and tall, with his broad shoulders thrown back, and the brown curly hair tumbled over his forehead. And she could see the slow grin lift one corner of his mouth while his serious, brown eyes lightened.
But, as always, the shadow of Sue came to darken the picture. Sue. Tom Vale loved Sue Hollister. Blinded by the youth and beauty of the other girl, he just couldn’t see Amelia.
Hot hands of rage shook Amelia. She hated her cousin, Sue, with the deadly intensity which only a homely, older woman can feel for another who has youth and beauty. Not that Amelia actually considered herself homely and old. She thought there was dignity in her thirty-six years of age, an aristocratic effect in being tall and thin. It was only when she thought of Sue, small, pert, and rounded, that she had her doubts.
The last fragment of Amelia’s dreamworld vanished. Her attention focused back upon the woman in the bed.
“Sue and Tom Vale are very much in love,” old Harriet was saying. “The thing which hinders them from getting married is that Tom can’t afford it. His business has suffered serious reverses, and he needs a large sum of money to get back on his feet.” Harriet turned toward Amelia with an eagerly confiding air. “That’s why I intend to change my will. If I left Sue the amount of money which Tom needs, they’ll be able to get married. Tom may not like the idea of using Sue’s money, but with his business going again, he’ll have more than a good chance to pay it back. I’m sure he’ll see it that way.”
“But Sue’s an outsider!” Amelia protested. “She has no right to the Blanding fortune.”
“She’s the child of your mother’s sister,” old Harriet reminded. “I don’t see why you should feel that way. And I don’t see why you should want to deny Sue and Tom this chance.” Harriet shrugged fragile shoulders. “Anyway, I consider the matter finished. You’ll still have the house and more money than you’ll ever need. Now leave me awhile—I’m exhausted.” Harriet relaxed into the bed, and her eyes closed wearily.
Through force of long habit, Amelia leaned over the old woman, pulling the covers up around her withered throat. Her lips were pressed into a white line, and her eyes were slits of fury. For an awful moment, her taloned hands poised over Harriet’s scrawny neck. Then, shaking, her hands withdrew.
With an effort, Amelia composed herself. Not that way. It would be too obvious. She’d be sent to prison. No—she had a better way, an infinitely safer way.
Quietly Amelia left the room, and softly she closed the door. She paused a moment in the hall, listening. The mansion was very still in the late spring afternoon. Amelia recalled that Sue and Tom had left for town that morning. They wouldn’t be back until evening, Old Phelps, the butler, would be cleaning the silverware, and Melinda, the cook would be starting her preparation of the evening meal.
Everything was perfect for what Amelia intended to do. Just perfect.
Amelia went quickly to her room, turning the key in the lock. From a drawer of her dresser, she took a case, a tiny one of the size which might have held a ring. But the object within was not a ring. It was a jewel—a strange pink jewel, pear-shaped and perfect.
Amelia was careful not to touch the jewel. She had done so once, long ago, and still crystal-clear in her mind was the frightful memory of how the world had clouded and the strength had drained from her body. It was only because of an overwhelming horror that she had been able to unclasp her hand and hurl the deadly thing away. And she remembered, when later she had picked it up, how it had been touched with the faintest tinge of red. Like a leech, she thought, only dimly aware of the truth.
It was from her mother, Agatha, that Amelia had inherited the jewel. Agatha had lain in a four-poster bed very similar to the one in which old Harriet lay now and her austere, patrician features had been ravaged by the illness which had finally taken her away. Across the gulf of years came the whisper of her fading voice.
“This is all I have to leave you, child. Take good care of it, for it is the most precious thing in the world. The jewel has been in the Lawson family for many generations, and has gotten them out of difficulties many times. If anyone should ever stand in your way, do not antagonize him—just let him wear the jewel. You will be one enemy the less.” Agatha had somehow managed a ghastly chuckle. Then had come the revelation.
“Your father was my enemy, a miserly, spiteful man. Because of a quarrel, he deliberately cut me out of his will. And he would have cut you out, too, if I’d given him the chance. But I didn’t. I let him wear the jewel as a watch-charm to show that I harbored no bad feelings. He
simply wasted away and died. That is how the jewel works, child…”
Amelia had not been shocked by this death-bed confession. What little she remembered of her father, Gregory Blanding, was not pleasant. And there was within her a streak of callousness and cruelty rivaling even her mother’s.
Now Amelia bent over the jewel where it lay in its case on the dresser. She gazed deep into the evil, pink heart of it, and she gloated at what she saw.
It was going to be easy—so very easy. She would present Aunt Harriet with the jewel, and the old woman would die without changing her will. Sue, with her pittance, would not be able to help Tom Vale, and the two would not be able to marry. Amelia knew Tom was too proud to marry in poverty.
With a quickening of her heart, Amelia recalled Tom Vale’s desire to revive his business. Most likely, he was desperate enough to welcome almost any source of money. And with the Blanding fortune in her possession, Amelia would have enough to help him many times over. She would offer Tom Vale the money he needed—with, however, the condition that he marry her to obtain it. And then he would be hers. Her reasoning powers dulled by the intensity of her desire, Amelia did not doubt this. She knew money could not buy love, but if she had Tom Vale, that alone would be sufficient.
Hands trembling with eagerness, Amelia obtained a thin, gold chain from among her jewelry. She strung the jewel onto this, so that it hung pendant-fashion. Then, tense with the purpose that motivated her, she stole from the room.
Out in the hall, she listened. Nothing had changed. The old mansion was still quiet and serene.
Amelia slipped into old Harriet’s room and tiptoed cautiously over to the bed. She hesitated. Her original plan had been to awaken her aunt and present her with the jewel, as a sort of apology gift for the way she had talked against Sue. But now Amelia saw no need to awaken the old woman. In her weakened condition, Harriet would succumb so fast that she would never again open her eyes.
Amelia held her breath. Very gently, she lay the jewel into one of the veined, thin hands on the coverlet. Then she returned to her room.
It was not until the door had been closed that Amelia dared breathe. She expected to feel a stab of fear at what she had done. She sat down and waited for it to come—but it didn’t. She knew only a dark, gloating satisfaction.
Slowly the sunlight faded. Shadows stretched and deepened within the room. Amelia glanced at her watch. Time for dinner. She usually brought up a tray from the kitchen for Harriet, and when her aunt had finished, she went to the dining room for her own meal.
Amelia rose and smoothed her dress. Settling her face into its habitual unconcerned lines, she went down to the kitchen.
“And how’s Miss Harriet?” Melinda wanted to know.
“She seems to be resting very well,” Amelia responded. “I haven’t heard a sound from her all afternoon.”
“Might be a bad sign,” Phelps muttered. “Old people go that way.” Amelia, forced a smile. “Not Aunt Harriet. There’s still a few years left in her.”
With the tray in her hands, Amelia left the kitchen. She found the trip up the stairs strangely hard to make. It had never been that way before. Walking up and down these stairs had been her sole means of exercise, and she had almost enjoyed it. The flight of stairs was a long one, and steep. In spite of her worries, Amelia wondered as she always did what would happen if she were ever to fall. It was something of a phobia with her, which explained why, as a child, she had never slid down the tempting, long curve of the banister.
Before the door of old Harriet’s room, Amelia paused. Almost she was afraid of what she would find beyond. Then, impelled by the desire to see the outcome of her deed, she pushed open the door and entered the room.
There was no slightest flicker of motion from the bed. The quavering voice which Amelia knew so well did not sound. The evening shadows which filled the room seemed strangely heavy and deep.
Amelia set down the tray and went softly to the bed. In the dusk, the waxen paleness of old Harriet’s features seemed to glow. Her eyes were closed, looking sunken in the shadows. Tentatively, Amelia touched one withered hand. It was cold—cold. And when Amelia listened for the faintest wheeze of breath, it was not there. Harriet Blanding was dead. Quite dead.
The jewel still lay in the wrinkled palm. Amelia picked it up by its length of gold chain, straightening with triumph. Now she saw that it was no longer pink. It had become suffused with a deep red hue that resembled the color of blood. Like a leech, Amelia thought again, and nausea stirred at the pit of her stomach. But a moment later she smiled in satisfaction at what had been achieved. Returning the jewel to its case, she went down to the kitchen.
“Aunt Harriet is dead,” she told Melinda and Phelps. And her face looked properly grieving.
* * * *
The week which followed was something of a nightmare for Amelia. Dr. Thayer signed the death certificate readily enough, but there were seemingly endless conferences with the mortician who, out of respect to the wealth of the Blandings, paid a disgusting amount of attention to details. And then there were the obnoxiously hypocritical condolences offered at the wake, and the strain of just sitting around, looking limp and mournful. Amelia hated the black garments she had to wear. They made her look gaunt. But at last it was all over.
To Amelia, the only bright spot about the whole affair was the reading of the will which lawyer Hurley made in the library, after the funeral. It was something she liked to look back upon with vindictive, gloating pleasure.
The Blanding wealth had fallen to Amelia, of course, since she was the only Blanding left. There had been small bequests to Sue, Melinda, and Phelps, with, however, the provision that the fortune was to revert to Sue in the event that anything happened to Amelia. This did not worry Amelia in the slightest. It was a remote possibility, and she intended to take good care that it did not occur.
Aside from having acquired the Blanding fortune, Amelia’s main satisfaction was derived from the bitter disappointment which had aged Sue’s small face and the utter hopelessness which had deepened in Tom Vale’s. Amelia was elated almost to bursting at the success of her plans thus far. And, recalling the financial difficulties which formed a barrier between Sue and Tom, she had little, doubt of their eventual, complete culmination. Already Amelia was imagining herself married to Tom Vale and thinking of the parties at which she would show him off.
* * * *
For a week after the funeral, Amelia was busy arranging the affairs of the mansion in the new order which suited her. Sue was a wan little figure, seen only at meals, and the smiles which she gave in response to Amelia’s occasional conversational sallies were at best only pathetic attempts. Tom Vale was absent from the house for some time, but one day he finally put in an appearance. That was what Amelia had been waiting for.
She dressed particularly well that night. For some time now she had been attending a beauty parlor, and had accepted everything offered her in the way of facials, permanents, and manicures, and while the result had an overdone effect, Amelia was convinced that she was more than Sue’s equal in looks.
If Amelia was aware that Tom had come to see Sue and was just aching for a chance to talk to her alone, she gave no indication of it. Quite skillfully, she monopolized the entire conversation, and succeeded the whole evening in keeping the young couple apart. And then Amelia sent Sue upstairs to search for an entirely nonexistent photograph album, Amelia, almost shaking with the excitement of the moment, faced Tom Vale.
“Tom, there there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
He looked at her, solemnly quizzical, the brown curls tumbled over his forehead. “Yes, Miss Blanding?”
“Oh, Tom, can’t you drop that eternal ‘Miss Blanding’?” she cried impatiently.
He stared at her, at once startled and puzzled. “Why, sure, if you want it that way,” he answered slowly.
Amelia drew a deep breath. One point had already been won. She tried to compose herself, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the way her tightly-clasped hands trembled or the way her lips twisted.
“Tom, I hope it isn’t too late to do something about getting your business reinstated.” Amelia bit her lip, for her voice had sounded queerly high and shrill with nervous tension.
But it was the content of her words not their tone which had registered upon Tom Vale. The slightly bewildered look faded from his face, and the lines of hopelessness returned. “No, it isn’t too late—but it will be if I can’t manage to do something soon.”
“Have you found any prospects for obtaining a loan?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s a lot of money, and I don’t know who’ll lend it to me.” Suddenly his eyes jerked to hers. “What are you getting at? Do you mean you’ll—”
Amelia nodded slowly. “Yes, Tom, I could let you have the money. In fact, I could let you have enough, to buy another business like yours.”
Tom Vale sat tensely upright, brown eyes gleaming, the slow smile lifting one corner of his wide lips. “Why, say, that’s swell of you!” he exclaimed. “Sue and I will never be able to thank you enough.”
“Sue doesn’t enter into this!” Amelia A snapped.
“Oh. I see.” Instantly his eager grin died. He slumped back into his chair, his eyes avoiding hers.
“Look here, Tom,” Amelia pursued swiftly, “I want you to marry me. As your wife, I’d turn over to you a sum of money large enough to get your business going again—or anything else you might want, for that matter. I’m offering you a wonderful opportunity. You know by now that you’ll never be able to borrow an amount of money as large as you need, and surely the condition which I impose is much easier to meet than anything else with which you might be confronted. Tom—will you do it?”
For a long moment he was silent. Then he slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t go through with a thing like that. I love Sue.”
The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK Page 21